Dance broke the silence with, “I’m afraid we’ve got a problem, Vincent.”

His eyes narrowed.

Dance held up the plastic evidence bag containing the straw he’d drunk from. “You know about DNA, don’t you?”

“What’re you talking about?”

Rhyme wondered, Is it going to work? Will he fall for it?

Was Vincent going to end the interview, clam up and insist on an attorney? He had every right to do that. The bluff would end in disaster and they might never get any information from him until after the Watchmaker had killed his next victim.

Calmly Dance asked, “You ever seen your DNA analysis, Vincent?”

Dance turned the computer monitor toward Vincent. “I don’t know if you’re aware of the FBI’s Combined DNA Index System. We call it CODIS. Whenever there’s a rape or sexual assault and the perp isn’t caught, his fluids, skin and hair are collected. Even with a condom, there’s usually some material left on or near the victim with DNA in it. The profile is stored and when police get a suspect, his profile is matched against what’s in the forensic index. Take a look.”

Beneath the heading CODIS were dozens of lines of numbers, letters, grids and fuzzy bars virtually incomprehensible to anyone unfamiliar with the system.

The man was completely still, though his breathing was heavy. His eyes, to Rhyme, seemed defiant. “This’s bullshit.”

“You know, Vincent, that nobody ever beats a case built on solid DNA. And we’ve gotten convictions years after the assaults.”

“You can’t. . . . I didn’t say it was okay to do that.” He stared at the bagged straw.

“Vincent,” Kathryn Dance said softly, “you’re in trouble.”

Technically true, Rhyme reflected. He was in possession of a deadly weapon.

Never lie . . .

“But you’ve got something we want.” A pause, then Dance continued. “I don’t know about New York procedures but in California our district attorneys have a lot of latitude to work with cooperative suspects.”

She looked at Sellitto, who took over. “Yeah, Vincent, same thing here. The DA’ll listen to our recommendations.”

Lost in the bars on the computer screen, his teeth set, Vincent said nothing.

Baker continued. “Here’s the deal: If you help us get the Watchmaker and if you confess to the prior sexual assaults, we’ll get you immunity on the murder and assault counts for the two victims the other day. We’ll make sure you have access to a treatment center. And you’ll be isolated from the general population.”

Dance said firmly, “But you have to help us. Right now, Vincent. What do you say?”

The man glanced at the screen that contained a DNA analysis that had nothing whatsoever to do with him. His leg was bouncing slightly—a sign that a debate was raging within him.

He turned his defiant eyes to Kathryn Dance.

Yes or no? What would it be?

A full minute passed. Rhyme heard only the ticking of the Watchmaker’s clocks.

Vincent grimaced. He looked up at them with cold eyes. “He’s a businessman from the Midwest. His name’s Gerald Duncan. He’s staying in a church in Manhattan. Can I have another Coke?”